stopped a moment in the hall to look after the carriage, and Emily followed her aunt into the room.
"Don't you think him altered, my dear?"—Emily looked quite unconscious of her meaning—"your poor, dear uncle—sadly broken; but he would not let you be sent for. I have had all the nursing; but he was resolved you should enjoy yourself. You will find us very dull after London."
Emily sprang out of the room—her uncle stood in the hall—the light of the open door fell full upon him. Pale, emaciated, speaking with evident difficulty, he looked, to use that common but expressive phrase, the picture of death. Her very first thought was, "I must not let him see how shocked I am."
With one strong effort, she rejoined her aunt—even Mrs. Arundel was startled by her paleness. "Come, come, child," said she, forcing her to drink a glass of wine, "I can't have you to nurse too. I dare say your uncle will soon be better: he has missed you so—I couldn't go walking and reading about with him as you used to do. He will get into good humour now. I think he fancies a great deal of his illness; but you see he has been moped. Not-
